


The Kind of Trouble You Can Taste

by supermatique



Series: The Kind of Trouble [1]
Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 16:03:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supermatique/pseuds/supermatique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erica has been with a woman exactly once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kind of Trouble You Can Taste

**Author's Note:**

> Set between events of 1x01 and 1x09. A big thank you to fembuck for beta reading and improving this story, and also to forevertween for being my squee buddy.

 

Erica has been with a woman exactly once.

Sylvia was a picture-book of a woman: almost six feet tall, with dashing long blonde hair and a slender body toned by yoga and running. She had flawless skin and an appetite that meant alarmingly regular occasions of Double Whopper consumption at Hungry Jacks after wild nights in central Melbourne.

They had been out for drinks in Fitzroy, ending up at the Night Cat where two guys Erica recognised from their Civil Law tutorials bought them drinks and tried it on with mostly Sylvia. Erica was attractive and knew it, but next to Sylvia she was never quite the main attraction. 

Sylvia had blown them off after five minutes and then grabbed Erica's wrist, dragging her out of the bar. She laughed, breathless as they jogged out into the street. "God, they're so boring. Is this what we have to look forward to?"

"I hope not," Erica said, even though she wasn't really bothered one way or another. Her father was the one who wanted her to get settled and have a career at Davidson Chase, not her. "Where do you want to go?"

Sylvia flagged down a taxi. "Let's go back to mine. But I wanna get a whopper. Where's Hungry Jacks?" she asked the driver.

Two whopper combos and a stop at Liquorland later, they were mildly intoxicated on the couch in the flat Sylvia shared with two Arts graduates. There, with a David Letterman rerun on mute, Sylvia had leaned in close to Erica and put a hand on her upper thigh. "What do you say, 'ric?"

After reassurances by both sides that they weren't “lesbian or anything,” Sylvia had stood up and stripped right in the middle of the living room and led Erica to her bedroom. It was the best sex Erica had had in her life: fun, unrestrained, and no strings attached. Sylvia liked to please and was easy to please in return, and both women were confident enough in their bodies to try anything they thought of that night.

When Sylvia introduced Erica to her new boyfriend two weeks later, Erica had asked, "Are you going to tell him? About us?"

"No," Sylvia laughed, and sixteen months later Erica attended Sylvia's wedding to Luke Harris.

It was there that she met Mark, Luke's best man. It was something of a cliché, the best man and the bridesmaid hooking up at a wedding, but when Mark approached her during the first dance of the night it wasn’t to try for a quick root in the bathroom like Erica had thought; instead, he had asked her to dance and led her in a waltz, and then a tango, and then as the night wore on, the chicken dance.

"Vanilla Mark? Really?" is what Sylvia had said when Erica spilled the beans about their eventual relationship.

"He's not vanilla," Erica replied almost immediately, but she laughed anyway.

"He's so vanilla," Sylvia declared. "You're gonna get bored, Erica. You're a wild child! He's not gonna be able to keep up with you."

"He keeps up with me fine," Erica had replied, and for the most part it had been true of their relationship at the time.

But that was then. 

Now, Mark _i_ _s_ falling behind, a dead weight dragging at her each and every step, a trap she has fallen into and now can't escape. It feels as though everything that happened to her before Wentworth was someone else's life, a life she can't remember having or ever wanting but is now stuck with.

It's those damn dreams, where Franky comes to her and undoes her and ruins her waking moments. In her dreams, Franky frees desires that she has tamed, tamped down and locked away for all these years, and Erica is shocked to realise that her body is blossoming under the resurgence like a flame. Franky's swagger and confidence have drawn Erica in, and she wonders if it's Franky she wants, or the power that Franky wields that calls to her. Either way, the distinction between the two is blurring, and along with it her sense of self.

The night she fights with Mark, Erica dreams of Franky in her office, pressed up against her, pinning her against the edge of her desk. Erica doesn't remember having installed mood lighting in her office, but soft light touches Franky's face in all the right places, framing her eyes, illuminating her smile. 

"Miss Davidson,” Franky says lowly, pinning Erica with her stare and moving closer. Her hands find Erica's waist and she threads her fingers under Erica's blazer, tugging at the soft material of Erica's silk blouse. “I'm not wrong, am I? About this?”

Erica can't think, can't even remember her own name with Franky standing so close to her. She reaches out to brace herself against something, anything; all she finds is Franky's body, strong and warm and flush against her own. She opens her mouth to speak, but Franky's mouth is on hers, soft and gentle at first, then Franky grabs her hair and crushes Erica against her, bites her lip and pushes her thigh between Erica's legs.

“Franky,” she gasps, rocking against Franky, clutching at her sweatshirt.

Franky pulls back a little, her eyes wide and dark. “Are you sure?” she asks, and Erica imagines she can hear Franky's voice waver.

_No_ , Erica thinks. _Maybe. Yes._ She nods. 

Their movements grow frantic then, grabbing at each other. She moans shamelessly, loudly.

"Tell me what you want me to do," Franky says, stilling her hands.

“Fuck me, harder,” Erica gasps, grabbing Franky's hand and holding it against the terrible throbbing between her legs. Her body burns like a fever and when Franky takes her with a cruel smirk on her face, her eyes like flint as they stare into Erica's, she comes with a cry, her body begging for more, more, she can't get enough.

She wakes with a start. She turns and looks at the clock: 5:57. Three minutes before the alarm is set to go off. She's so frustrated she could scream. 

She slips out of bed and goes to the bathroom, splashing the coldest water on her face. In the mirror, her reflection is feral, and there's a hunger lingering in her eyes.

The ache between her legs is persistent. Erica licks her lips, bites the inside of her cheek as she slips two fingers inside herself, gripping the white porcelain of the bathroom sink with her left hand. It only takes a few quick strokes before she comes, hard, her knee banging painfully against the hot water cupboard; when she's done, her reflection is heavy-lidded and satisfied. 

-

She keeps an unofficial copy of Franky's file in the bottom drawer of her desk, a thick manila folder full of records from Franky's time at Wentworth: medical files, incident reports, and Erica's own notes handwritten on loose leaf, mostly from when she was still a prisoner advocate and tutoring Franky for her HSC. 

She tries to think back as far as she can, tries to pinpoint the exact moment when Franky became more than just another one of the challenges Erica has hunted for throughout her career. Things that challenged her always yielded far more fascinating results and reaped more satisfying rewards than things that were easily won, and the buzz she got from conquering challenges fuelled her ambition in a way that effortless victory never could. But Franky now nips at Erica's nape with every greeting from the other side of the exercise yard fence; she ghosts her hands up Erica's arms with every slouched exchange in her office, laves an earlobe with each time they stare each other down across the table in the library.

Erica opens the drawer and handles the weight of Franky's two years in Wentworth. The file sits heavy in her hands, and a frisson of excitement courses through her, punctuated by a pang of guilt. She knows that she shouldn’t be aroused by evidence of Franky’s eventful stay at Wentworth, but it doesn’t stop her from feeling lightheaded and slightly breathless from the thrill.

Since Bea's attack, Channing's given into her push for more CCTV inside the units. It's gotten her a few brownie points with the officers as a result, something that Erica never thought she'd be looking for but nevertheless is thankful to have. It won't get the women pushing the duress button any more than usual – which is never – but at least they'll have hard evidence to follow.

On her computer screen, Bea and Liz are sitting at the table, chatting over mugs of tea. The resolution is sharp enough for Erica to tell that Bea's still on edge after the attack. Bea's on the right side of the power struggle, though, whether or not she knows it or wants to be; despite all her naiveté, Bea's inherent do-gooder nature is setting her up for a battle for top-dog, and Erica knows she'll have to keep an eye on Bea now, as well as Jacs and Franky, if she wants to survive, let alone thrive, as governor.

New movement catches her eye. Franky appears in the top right of the screen, hands in her pockets as she swaggers towards Bea and Liz. She leans her right hip against the table as she nods and crosses her arms, and then her attention is pulled away by Kim, who tugs on the hem of Franky's tank top as she snuggles up behind her.

There aren't cameras into each individual cell, but Erica can imagine all too easily what Kim and Franky get up to after lights out. She shuts her laptop as Franky allows herself to be led by hand back to her cell, smirking all the while.

She wants to go down there, wants to take Franky for herself instead of having to touch herself behind a desk, behind a computer screen. But she stays where she is and flips through Franky's notes, picking out a page dated almost two years ago: her official report after their first session together.

_Franky_ _is highly intelligent and extremely perceptive. With the right resources and direction she shows great promise for advancement through the tutor program._

Attached to that is a scrap of yellow legal pad, covered in her own neat lettering.

_Franky has major trust issues and doesn't respect me at all. She said to me when I asked her why she's not more invested, “What's the point?” It's like I've already failed her before she's even started, even though she's far and away got the brains for it. She's the one. If there's anyone who's going to make this program look good, it's her._

Down the bottom, she had written _HSC??_ and underlined it twice.

Erica leans back in her chair, suddenly weary. It had taken about six months before Franky opened up to her, and even then the slightest misstep could put Franky back on the defensive. She's only ever made the mistake of asking after Franky's father once, and after they moved past that it had been relatively smooth sailing between them. She can still remember the ecstatic celebration in the library when Franky's HSC results came in; Franky had hugged her impulsively and then jumped back, embarrassed for about a second before recovering her usual cocky self. Linda had been about to subdue Franky for her, but Erica just laughed and touched Franky's shoulder in congratulations.

“You were pretty proud of me that day, weren't you, Miss Davidson?" 

She looks up with a start – Franky's standing in the doorway with her arms crossed, smirking at her. 

“How did you get in here, Franky?”

“I walked.”

“You're not allowed out past count.”

Franky makes a scared face. “Are you going to punish me?” 

“Don't be absurd.”

“I think you want to,” Franky grins, leaning against the door jamb. She runs her hands down her body, swaying her hips. “Come get this.”

“Don't presume to know what I want.” 

“Ooh, _presume_. Foxy.” Franky gazes around the office then casually examines her fingernails. “You know, I heard governors don't last very long in here.” 

“Is that a threat?”

“Just an observation.” Franky has that smirk on her face again, the one that makes Erica feel like she knows nothing at all. “Miss Davidson. Governor? Are you all right?”

“What?” she says, and then she wakes up to Maryann shaking her gently, standing over her looking concerned. 

“You fell asleep,” her secretary says. “I've finished filing the IMP reviews. There are a few remand requests waiting, still.”

“They can wait til tomorrow,” Erica replies. “You should go home, what time is it?”

“Just past seven thirty.” Maryann smiles at her. “Good night, Governor.”

“Good night,” she returns, only half paying attention. Franky's file is still in her hand; when she realises it, she drops it as if burned.

-

She's exhausted. Her bones ache, her body is ready to melt into a puddle of nothingness, and underneath it all is an annoyance that is steadily building towards rage the more she thinks about what Channing tried to pull in her office.

Mark's already gone to bed. He's left her some dinner in the fridge, but when she opens the door she reaches for the bottle of pinot noir instead and then slouches on the sofa. She can see her own reflection in the black of the television screen, old-looking and tired. She does feel old, so old tonight, feels like everything she's accomplished so far has counted for nothing after today. _And now Channing thinks he can proposition me? He was o_ _nly offering me “support,” well he can fuck off._

Erica can play with the big boys. She can hold her own against the sexism and harassment constantly faced by women in positions of power – god knows she had to deal with enough of that shit back at her dad's firm. Wentworth should've been different: her rules, her control. But even she knows these past months have been anything but positive. And Franky – god, she doesn't want to think about Franky tonight.

She sighs, examines the wine glass as if it would give her the answers to questions that she can’t even articulate. 

As the bottle slowly diminishes, she recalls Bea's face, contorted in anger and then devastation and then the terrifying nothingness of her expression as she lay on the bed in Medical. Everyone knows that Debbie was the only thing Bea was living for, behaving for. Erica doesn't want to think about where this will take them, doesn't want to think about what it will be like at Wentworth tomorrow and in the days that follow.

She especially doesn't want to be near Mark, least of all tonight, so she stays on the couch and lets sleep come to her there. When it does, she dreams of their house, that she is standing in the backyard where two rows of six pine trees have inexplicably sprouted from the feature garden. An oil lantern hangs from each one of them, swaying in the wind, and she lights them with a candle that has appeared in her hand. Franky is standing next to her now, and slings an arm around Erica's shoulder. They watch the candle flames flicker inside the lamps, threatening to catch on the tree leaves.

She must have worried out loud, because Franky looks at her and smiles. "Don't worry," she says, cheerfully squeezing Erica's body against hers. "They're locked in, see?"

She does see, but as they look on, one of the trees catches fire and then the flames are spreading, jumping and leaping over branches and leaves. Channing appears all of a sudden, gesturing and speaking to her, but she can’t hear him, and it’s as though she is watching a home movie of herself with the volume on mute. She picks up the garden hose lying at her feet, but it isn't long enough to reach the flames. She turns back to the tree, and Erica knows she should feel afraid, but there is beauty in the destruction, in the way the suddenly isolated pine looks so naked without its greenery. Despite the damage, the structure of the tree is still intact, and Erica sees it as a dark figure raising its arms skyward, manipulating fire with its fingertips.

She runs to the tree, but it moves farther away the more she advances. Water trickles from the hose and spurts over her knuckles, and if she can't reach the tree then maybe the water can, but it's still not enough. 

Franky's back by her side. "I can't put it out, Franky, help me." Panic is growing inside her now; the tree is dying and she doesn't want it to, she isn't ready.

"Erica," Franky whispers into her ear. She wraps an arm around Erica's waist, and they stand a distance from the tree, watching the flames lick away at what's left. Then Franky lifts her free hand and snaps her fingers, and the fire extinguishes itself in a second. She smirks at Erica.

"Tell me what you want me to do."

With a sigh, Erica turns into Franky's embrace, and then they're in Franky's cell, moonlight filtering through the bars. "I can't fight any more," she says.

"Feel how wet I am for you," Franky tells her, and pulls Erica's hand to down between her legs. Erica can feel Franky's warmth, hot and damp against her, and her fingers flex, knowing innately what to do. Franky's reaction is stunning. Her eyes flutter shut and she raises her hips and rocks against Erica's hand, trapping Erica's wrist with a firm grip. A low, languid moan escapes her throat, and the sound fuels Erica's desire; she pins Franky's hips to the wall with her own. Franky pulls Erica down, kisses her hard on the mouth, and Erica can taste the coppery tang of blood on her lips.

“You've been avoiding me,” Franky says, after she comes. She licks Erica's fingers clean, smirks at her. "Hmm, gorgeous?"

"You're angry with me."

"So?"

"I don't want you to hate me."

Franky shrugs. "Doesn't matter what I think, screws just do whatever."

"That's not true." 

"Isn't it?"

"I'm not a screw."

"Coulda fooled me, you've screwed me pretty well. The slot? The ring? You're an expert."

"I didn't want to."

Franky laughs, hooks her arm around Erica's neck. She squeezes affectionately. "What's he say about us, eh?"

"Nothing. He's nothing."

"Wake up, Miss Davidson, or not even you'll have your own back."

Franky is sneering at her now, and the squeeze turns into a vice grip around her neck. She wakes suddenly, her neck cramping from the awkward position she's fallen asleep in. The digits on the DVD player glow green in the cold of the room: 4:44.

She strips and crawls to bed, pushes Mark away when he tries to spoon her, and sleeps fitfully for the rest of the night.

-

"Tell me what you want me to do," Franky says, and tonight she bends Erica over the desk in her office and fucks her from behind with a surreal orange dildo that is so ridiculously fluorescent that the sight of it makes Erica snorts out loud in her sleep.

"You think this is funny?" Franky asks, pushing Erica's face down against the surface of her desk. "Don't look at me."

Franky grinds against her, thrusting in tantalisingly slow circles and chuckling whenever Erica struggles for more. She palms Erica's left breast, pulls her hair so hard that Erica cries out in pain, roughly grips Erica's waist with her other hand. 

Erica bucks and jerks desperately, moans when Franky licks her fingers and slips a hand around her, thumbing her clit, making swirling small circles around the most sensitive part of her. She's so wet, she’s hovering on the edge of orgasm, and she knows it's going to be so fucking good. Franky fucks her harder, faster, and then – and then she's jerked into wakefulness, wheezing for air as she sits up in bed, the sheets in a death grip in her hands. 

She flinches when Mark's hand lands on her shoulder.

"Hey, it's just me," he says, rubbing his hand in circles over her back. "You're shaking. You all right?"

"Yeah." She's been clutching the sheets so hard in her sleep that her fingers protest when she flexes them. "Just a – just a nightmare."

"Wanna talk about it?" he asks, and Erica almost laughs.

"I'm fine."

She brings herself to orgasm in the shower, bracing against the dark tile, touching herself like Franky touched her. She sighs as she braces her forearm against the wall of the shower and presses her forehead against it, turns the water to the hottest setting and simply stands under the spray until Mark knocks on the door and tells her he has to pee.

She dresses herself in a simple black skirt and a dark slate-coloured silk shirt, a combination that always makes her feel like a million bucks. Mark whistles lowly as she passes him on the way out the door, and she shoves away the irritation that simmers beneath her skin at the sound.

Four o'clock and it's time for Franky's tutoring session, the first one since Franky's been out of the slot. Channing wanted to scrap the sessions altogether, but Erica insisted that they keep it going. It'll be good for the press, she had told him. Each time Franky passes a paper there will be something new to show them. She convinced him that it would be a feather in the cap for the Department, a long term investment that they would both be able to rely on over the years.

"I'll remain her tutor," Erica had said, to seal the deal. "That way we won't be wasting any external resources."

Channing had looked at her for a long while before signing off his approval, and Erica thought back to his remark about the line between prisoners and officers. She tells herself that this is different. She’s not an officer, never has been and never will be, and she owes Franky.

When she gets to the education centre, Franky's already slouched in one of the centre's uncomfortable plastic chairs, waiting for Erica with her arms crossed. 

"You're late," Franky says, raising an eyebrow at the clock on the wall. 

"I wasn't sure you'd agree to come," Erica replies, even though the clock says four on the dot. Franky just smirks at her. 

"I wouldn't miss our sessions for anything, Miss Davidson," she says, and there's a certain emphasis on _anything_ that makes Erica wince. She briefly wonders if she can do this, can be here pretending that they can pick up from where they left off all those weeks ago, but they're here now, and she should try to make amends where she can.

They agree to go back to the beginning, to make a fresh start on the curriculum. "I'm a little rusty," Franky tells her, as Erica boots up her laptop. She waggles her eyebrows. "Haven't had a chance to do much reading lately."

However loaded Franky's words are, it feels like a truce, and the edge of the initial tension Erica feels melts away as the hour progresses. Franky picks up her pen and tries to do a few pen tricks, failing miserably in her attempts. Erica rolls her eyes and then bends down for the third time to retrieve Franky’s pen from the floor, placing the pen on the table between them with a pointed look. "I'm trying to further my life skills," Franky protests, presenting herself as the picture of innocence.

Their ensuing laughter comes naturally, and it feels like they're back on track in more than one manner, back to being easy with each other, and Erica knows she's fallen back into old habits.

She tries to focus, but her gaze seems determined to drift to Franky's hair, her imagination flashing back to just-fucked hair in her hands, Franky's breasts straining against her white singlet, Franky's fingers twitching after the pen falls from them. Erica recalls those fingers inside her, teasing her, and feels herself grow damp right there in the library. She shakes her head slightly to clear the haze. When she looks up, Franky is smirking at her, watching her with an expectant look.

"What is it, Franky?" She's trying for exasperated, but her voice just sounds tired.

"Could ask you the same thing, Miss Davidson." Franky folds her arms and leans across the table, rocking on her chair. "You're not paying attention." 

Erica frowns. "Yes I am."

"Looking at a girl like that, you're just making her want to do all sorts of stuff to herself," Franky continues, as if Erica hasn't said anything. "And what you're wearing..." Franky licks her lips and then grins up at Erica.

"Franky," she begins, but it's as if Franky's lost in her own world now, despite burning holes into Erica with her stare.

"Two years is just too far away... I don't know if I can wait that long to touch you."

"Franky..."

"I want to hear you say my name like that when we're in bed together."

"That's enough, Franky!" She's said it loud enough for Officer Davies to look in their direction, and she waves him off with a short nod. "Just stop it."

Franky bites her lower lip as she grins, looks up at Erica through her lashes. "Struck a nerve?"

The flash of white teeth makes her recall a dream where Franky had gone down on her in her office. Kneeling under the desk, Franky had pulled Erica’s pants down just far enough to lick and finger her to orgasm. She remembers Franky’s mouth, hot and persistent against her, moaning appreciatively as if Erica was the best thing she had ever tasted. When Erica came, Franky had looked up at her, lips glistening with Erica's wetness, her mouth turned up in an arrogant smile. The memory makes her wet again, the sensation burning through her, and she tries not to squirm in her seat. 

The rest of the hour is a complete write-off for her. Franky seems to pick up on her distraction, but for whatever reason she chooses to save Erica further embarrassment and they move through the session by rote. Franky has remembered more than she's let on, and when it comes to five o' clock she wraps up for the both of them, packs up the books and smiles at Erica as she gets up to leave.

Erica's heart speeds up to a painful hammering against her chest, then suspends its gallop as Franky trails two fingers up her forearm, smoothing out past her elbow before lightly touching Erica's neck as she walks away. The touch brands her, leaves an invisible mark burned into her skin that Erica is certain will stay with her for the rest of the day.

"See you next week, Miss Davidson," Franky leers, and winks suggestively at Erica over her shoulder as she's escorted back to her unit.

That night, she dreams of Franky choking her as they fuck on the floor of the wet cell. When she wakes up she can't look Mark in the eye. She's left him well behind, and now it's Franky and her own desires she's trying to keep up with.

Later, as she touches herself in her office's ensuite, she feels dirty, guilty, wonders how long more she can continue like this.

_You know, I heard governors don't last very long in here._

She washes her hands, stares at her reflection in the mirror. Her face is flushed, her eyes bright with the hunger she's only just managed to satiate temporarily. Her hands shake as she dries them. How long can she last, an inmate in her own prison?

 

END

 


End file.
